Reparations
by Nightfall
Summary: The reconstruction of Hogwarts is being done by those given commuted sentences by the Ministry. Hermione volunteers to supervise one of the workers in order to make some sort of a difference. DH-compliant excluding epilogue and interview canon.
1. In which we are bound by our commitments

**Title: **Reparations

**Chapter: **One - In which we are bound by our commitments

**Author: **nightfall (aka nightfalltwen on LJ)

**Pairing(s): **Draco/Hermione. Mentions of Ron/Hermione and Harry/Ginny and later there will be developments

**Rating: **T (Somewhere between PG13 and R, really)

**Summary:** The reconstruction of Hogwarts is being done by those given commuted sentences by the Ministry. Hermione volunteers to supervise one of the workers in order to make some sort of a difference.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes: **This was written as an expanded story behind a drabble entry to dramione_ldws on LJ and as a gift for **L**. The story is DH compliant, excluding epilogue and interview canon. This was partially inspired by a picture I found on deviant art.

***

_25 August 1998_

"You realise the responsibility we're giving you, Miss Granger?" Kingsley Shacklebolt asked, sitting behind a large, dark desk. "You, along with the rest of your classmates still have the opportunity to write your NEWTs. We've Floo'd in the best and brightest professors from other schools around the world to give all of you that chance."

"I do appreciate it, Minister," Hermione said, hands folded neatly in her lap. "But I don't think there is anything that the Ministry's temporary school can teach me that I don't already know."

If anyone was overhearing her conversation, they would have thought this was some impostor who had polyjuiced themselves with their face. If it weren't for the explicit spells, plus the fact that they'd made her wait for practically forever just to make sure that any feature-altering potions had worn off, Kingsley himself wouldn't have actually believed the words coming out of her mouth. But Hermione was resolute. She wanted to help with the rebuild of the school in any way that she could. She wasn't like Harry or Ron. She didn't have a desire to become an Auror, so she had no need for the final exams. Exams she could probably have written right then and there and still gotten O's.

"There aren't enough Aurors to supervise those who have been sentenced into service for the ministry," she continued with a matter-of-fact tone. "I need to do something constructive and, at this point, sitting in a cramped room in the Ministry taking classes isn't good enough. You said yourself that you needed volunteers to keep an eye on some of the less dangerous people."

"I didn't mean an eighteen-year-old --"

"If you say 'girl' or 'child', Minister Shacklebolt, I won't hesitate to hex you." Hermione raised her eyebrows. She didn't feel eighteen anymore. She felt ancient. Like the war had stripped her of everything young and fool-hardy.

A rumble of a sound started deep in Kingsley's chest. This chit certainly had bollocks to speak to him like that. Especially considering that all wands were registered and monitored inside Ministry walls these days. He started to laugh. Far be it from him to deny Hermione Granger a request. The girl had gone above and beyond anyone with her dedication to the Order of the Phoenix, to the Ministry, to the Wizarding World. She, along with her friends, had suffered more than just about anyone and still wanted to lend her services where they were needed most. She was right in all respects, with more volunteers for the minor felons, his Aurors could take a step back from the repairs of the castle and return to seeking out Death Eaters that were still at large. He wouldn't have to keep pulling Unspeakables off their cases and that would satisfy the Department of Mysteries very much.

"Well, Miss Granger, you're persistent, I will give you that." He pulled a black folder out of his desk and lay it in front of her. "We're glad to have your services. This one isn't a very pleasant wizard to be around. You'll need to bind your wand with his to limit his magic during his shifts. He won't like it. But he's reporting to the castle on the first to begin his service work if he knows what's good for him, so he won't put up much of a fight. I suggest you prepare yourself."

Hermione placed her hand on the folder and pulled it toward herself while Kingsley spoke at length of the certain spells that would be used to bind him. That the Ministry was strictly enforcing the use of wands, for the rebuild. The walls of Hogwarts needed to be carefully redone. Magic being infused into the very mortar and bricks. It would not be an easy task and they'd commuted a lot of sentences to this sort of community service for those who had committed crimes but had shown themselves to be useful. Much of the public was divided on this idea, but there had been little choice. Azkaban was simply not large enough for everyone.

Flipping open the file, Hermione felt her stomach clench. Oh of _course_.

***

_31 August, 1998_

Waving her wand over the stack of books, Dickens, Thackeray, Dafoe, Fielding, Hermione shrunk each of the volumes down to a reasonable size and placed them into the corner of her trunk, piling a good number of rolled socks on top of them. Next went all of her unmentionables. Ron sat on the edge of her bed, looking at the wall while she did this. She didn't want him to see her under things. It just didn't seem proper.

"I'm done with that; could you pass me those jumpers beside you?" she asked, holding out her hands.

Ron handed her three rather pilled jumpers which she placed in the trunk along with some skirts, shoes, denim trousers and various other things that would be needed for an extended stay away from home. He tried to hide his displeasure but it was rolling off his shoulders in waves. Hermione had known him far too long to not be able to tell when he was hacked off at something. Ron wore his emotions like most people wore their clothing. She wasn't sure if he actually knew the meaning of internalising his emotions.

"I still don't know why you want to do this, Hermione," he said after a moment of pulling at the nubbins on her blanket.

"Well I've told you. I want to do something where I'm making a difference." She hated having to explain herself over and over. Ron didn't understand. Harry didn't understand. Ginny said she understood but Hermione was certain that she didn't. Everyone expected her to go back to class. Like her life could ever be that sort of thing again. Classes and lessons and tests and marks. It just didn't seem to _matter _anymore.

She tucked the black folder in under her dressing gown. Ron's protests about her leaving had been loud enough that she'd avoided telling him her assignment simply for the fact that, one, it wasn't really his business and, two, she didn't want to have that argument.

"What about us?" he asked, stretching out his legs, finally broaching a subject they'd just sort of danced around all summer. "We've just sort of figured ourselves out and now you're leaving."

Hermione closed the trunk and latched it before sliding it onto the floor and sitting beside him. She took his hand in hers because it was the best way she knew how to express herself. Her and Ron. Hadn't that always been the plan somehow? Everyone said so. They'd always expected it would happen sooner or later. And somehow Hermione felt like those few moments at Hogwarts were already miles away and that things were just as stagnant as ever. Perhaps it was her fault. She'd been so wrapped up in everything else that she didn't know how to approach this change in their relationship. It was all so new.

She knew he had all these feelings for her.

She had feelings for him. She just wasn't sure what they were.

"Ron this isn't about us. This is about me doing something that I want to do for a change rather than doing something I have to do because the fate of the world rests on our shoulders. This was an opportunity to lend a hand in a different way." She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

"I'm just worried. It's dangerous."

"I'm not supervising the dangerous felons; I'm working with the non-dangerous ones."

"They're all dangerous."

Hermione swatted at him. "After all we've been through, facing what we faced, you'd think you'd have more faith in my abilities to defend myself."

Ron smiled at her in that lopsided way that he always managed to be able to pull off and put his arms around her. This was all sort of new for her. This affection directed at her. The kisses. The way his lips felt on her neck. The slide of his hand across her stomach. His little whispers. His hand moving higher. Just a little bit, but enough that she started to feel that flutter in her stomach that she couldn't seem to label as delicious nerves or flat out panic. And when his fingers moved across her breast, she grabbed his wrist and leaned away from him.

"Stop, Ron," she said quietly. "I can't. Not with my parents just downstairs. They still haven't adjusted to the memory modifications. Let alone trying to explain how a boy got into my room without even coming through the front door."

He sighed and shifted on the bed, looking a bit uncomfortable.

"You're going to be gone for almost a whole year," he said petulantly.

Hermione pursed her lips briefly then looked at him. "You'll hardly even notice. You and Harry will be too busy with your classes and getting ready for your NEWTs so you can get in with the Aurors. And you can Apparate so you'll be able to come up and visit. Plus there's owls."

It wasn't going to be the same. She knew it and he knew it. Maybe it would have been better if they hadn't tried to start this relationship when everything was so completely up in the air, though neither of them wanted to admit it. She knew she had to get her head in the right place and she wasn't sure how to do it or move back into a regular life anymore. A year was such a short time. It always seemed to go by quickly. By the end, she figured she'd have things sorted.

She just hoped it her decisions would be the right ones.

Ron nodded and got up off the bed, placing a kiss on her forehead and grabbing his jacket. "I'll see you at the platform tomorrow then?" he asked as if he needed her permission.

Hermione smiled. "You'd better. I'd like at least one friendly face to see me off."

***

_1 September, 1998_

Volunteers for the rebuild supervision had their own car on the Hogwarts express. Hermione sat next to a paunchy sort of fellow with a very large handlebar moustache who reminded her of Professor Slughorn in too many ways that she caught herself a couple of times almost calling him 'professor.' There were two Hitwizards at the front of the car giving all of them instructions on the exact spells they were to use to bind their charge's magic. That these spells would not wear off until released and that the felons they were dealing with knew this already. Hermione listened attentively because she'd not had a chance to try this sort of magic before. It sounded questionable, but she supposed it was the only thing they could manage without shackling everyone together with chains and pickaxes and striped uniforms. At least, she'd heard, there weren't going to be any strict dress codes for the prisoners.

A few people asked questions. Most remained silent. There were a few smiles and that made Hermione uneasy. Like some of the volunteers were looking forward to this. Taking someone's magic and holding it hostage.

Hermione didn't necessarily like the idea at all.

The woman at the head of the train, who had introduced herself as a constable and had mentioned something about how her father was Muggle and worked at Scotland Yard, put aside her notes and balled her fists against her hips. Hermione sat forward.

"When we arrive at the school, you will be ushered into the Great Hall. From there you will be introduced to your charges and directed to your assigned dorms. Those of you assisting the Aurors with the criminals that are believed to be more dangerous than others will not be housed in the same dorms as those to which you have been assigned. If you have a minor felon, those of you with black folders, in your charge, you will be housed in the same dorms. It is our hope that constant interaction will be an extremely beneficial aspect to their sentence."

Questions were asked and answered. Hermione barely heard most of them. All she could think about now was just how angry Harry and Ron were going to be if and when they found out about all of this. She sat back against the chair and looked out the window at the countryside whipping past the car and thought about all the times that they'd sat on the train, chattering about the new school year, trying not to think about what sort of things were going to happen next, Ron eating too many chocolate frogs and being sick out the window and Harry rubbing his scar when no one was looking.

Her mind went in and out of daydreams until she was being nudged by the rotund man beside her and she realised that the train had actually come to a stop. They were ushered out of the car and into carriages. Hermione looked at the floor because in a silly sort of way she wanted to pretend that she couldn't see the leathery creatures that pulled them along toward the school. She'd seen death. Too much of it. The thestrals were a reminder of that. And made her think of all the faces she'd seen.

"I've seen them all my life, young lady," Mr Moustache said, patting her shoulder with a meaty hand. "It isn't so bad once you get used to it."

"People say that about a lot of things," Hermione answered as she glanced over. "I'll have to take your word for it, because it's all rather fresh in my mind still."

Fresh didn't even begin to cover it. It had only been a few months since they'd lay Fred, Tonks, Remus and so many others into the ground. Hermione went to all the funerals. Harry too. Ron couldn't. He had his own wounds to tend to. His own broken family. But her and Harry attended. Out of some sort of loyalty to the wizarding world. To show that they, as survivors, cared enough about those who had given their lives. It got to be too much. Harry stopped appearing. The _Prophet_ had written stories about it. Hermione still attended. Shed tears. Until everyone was taken care of.

She was out of tears.

The Great Hall looked no different than how it had the day they had left. A mess. A jumble of tables and broken stones. Paintings either hung askew or were on the floor, the subjects had long since fled to other paintings around the castle. A few House banners still hung from the walls, torn and waiting for repair. The 'dor' was missing in Gryffindor. A few pieces of armour lay in the corners, lost to their owners when the battle was over. It all had to be sorted, cleaned, repaired and replaced. Hermione didn't even want to think about the rest of the castle.

She waited with her black folder tucked under her arm as the other half of the group was ushered in. Most of the faces that stared back at the volunteers were angry, some were reserved, a few cast glances about the castle and showed remorse.

The Auror in charge started calling names. First the condemned, then the volunteer or officer assigned to them. One by one everyone was paired off.

Hermione waited. Standing behind some taller people, out of sight.

"Malfoy, Draco."

She peeked past the elbow of the wizard in front of her, half expecting him to shuffle forward in chains. Draco had gotten off fairly easy, to Harry and Ron's utter chagrin. The Malfoys in general had been forced to donate much of their fortune to the Ministry. Everything had been limited. Narcissa had been given community work at St. Mungo's. Lucius and his son, shipped off to Hogwarts where they would rebuild, get their hands dirty and work until they understood the damage that they had caused. Hermione had been against splitting up the family. She tried to explain how it was akin to the treatment of Germany after the Great War and look how that turned out. Ron was too involved in his grief over Fred and Harry trying to sort out his own life to look beyond it all. To them the punishment was far too easy.

Hermione clenched her hands into tight fists as the Auror looked over to where she stood.

"Granger, Hermione."

"Oh, you've got to be _kidding_ me!"

Hermione stepped forward only to meet Draco's irritated expression. She wanted to slap him. Tell him that he hadn't been her first choice either. That he was insufferable and a spoiled little brat. She wanted to throw her folder at him and march out of the Great Hall never to look back. But if she'd done all that he would have ended up winning. Getting under her skin like an itch that would never go away. She was not going to allow Draco Malfoy to intimidate or insult her like that.

With a sharp look, Hermione stood in front of him. "Suck it up, Malfoy and deal with it."

His eyebrows shot up. Though she wondered why he was surprised that she spoke to him like that. It wasn't as if she had ever really been all that pleasant to him in the first place. A hit wizard came forward and held out Draco's wand, which had, like the others that belonged to the condemned, been locked away for safe keeping. They kept their own wands trained on him in case he decided to do something extremely stupid. Hermione held out hers toward him.

"I'm not letting you take all the magic from my wand, Granger," Draco said stubbornly, clutching his wand to his chest as though he hadn't seen it in ages. Which he hadn't.

"It's either this or you can do a stint in Azkaban," Hermione said under her breath. She had read the papers. She knew that this had been his choice. "You knew this was going to happen. Everyone else has gone through it already and you're holding up the line."

There was a great moment of hesitation from him. He stood there, not moving, just glaring at everyone around the room before stepping forward and thrusting out his wand at her, his knuckles had gone white from holding the instrument as hard as he was holding it. She could see the statements in his eyes as clear as if they were coming out of his mouth. You'd better not muck this up, Mudblood. I hate you. I hate what you and your people have done. I shouldn't have to do this. It isn't fair. You're to blame. This would have all gone much easier if no one had tried to save the world. I hate you. I don't trust you. You're beneath me. I hate you.

With a sigh, Hermione touched the tip of her wand to his and began the incantation. There were three parts. His wand glowed green, the green transferred to hers. Her wand glowed red and the glow transferred to his. His magic would be stored with hers, dampened enough that he could not perform anything greater than basic First Year spells. Every spell he cast would register with her wand. She would be able to feel it. It was new magic. Developed over the last couple of months for just such occasions. It was a dampening spell and a tracking spell and a registration spell all rolled into one.

Suddenly Draco grabbed her wrist and Hermione gasped. There were shouts from the Aurors to let her go. He ignored them and squeezed her wrist enough that she could feel her own bones shift under the tightness of his hand. A bit of a whimper escaped her throat. She met his gaze and gave her arm a bit of a tug.

"That is _my_ magic, Granger. I expect you to be careful with it," he warned, releasing her arm and dropping his wand. It hit the floor with a clatter and he raised his hands in surrender to the Aurors to show he meant no harm.


	2. In which letters are written

**Title: **Reparations

**Chapter: **Two - In which letters are written and books are chosen

**Author: **Nightfall (aka nightfalltwen)

**Pairing(s): **Draco/Hermione. Mentions of Ron/Hermione and Harry/Ginny and later there will be developments

**Summary: **The reconstruction of Hogwarts is being done by those given commuted sentences by the Ministry. Hermione volunteers to supervise one of the workers in order to make some sort of a difference.

**Rating **PG-13 -- R

**Word count: **3328

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Passage from _David Copperfield _is considered public domain.

**Author's Notes: **This was written as an expanded story behind a drabble entry to [info]dramione_ldws. The story is DH compliant, excluding epilogue and interview canon.

***

_19 September, 1998_

_Dear Hermione,_

_Happy Birthday from Harry and me! We thought you might enjoy some sweets to get you through your day. I still can't believe you chose this over classes, but from what we've read in the paper the reconstruction is coming along alright. School is dead boring and it's not a lot of fun without you here to help us with our homework, but we seem to be doing alright. There's loads of Ravenclaws and some Hufflepuffs in our class._

_They put Harry with that quiet bloke, Terry Boot and I've been sharing a table with Susan Bones. They're nice enough, but I would have rather sat with Harry. Professor Carter (well, he likes us to call him Mr Carter because he's from across the pond and doesn't consider himself a professor) says that us sitting apart is a good way to "move away from being so insular", which I just think is a fancy way of saying that he wants us to learn to be friends with other people. Susan's alright. She lets me peek at her notes._

_Oh! So Mum's in a right strop with Ginny. Instead of going back to classes, Ginny tried out for the Harpies and made it on the team. Mum is livid because she wanted Ginny to have a good education before dashing off to play at being a Quidditch star. She's the first Weasley to make it onto a professional team. Charlie and Bill had offers, but they went and chose another career. I'm proud of her._

_So who is it you're looking after, eh? They didn't publish any lists and your last letter didn't talk about it much. Harry and I have been trying to guess. He's got money down saying that you're probably supervising one of the girls. He's hoping for that cow, Parkinson because he'd love to see pictures of her up to her elbows in manual labour. 'Cept I told him that the paper says the girls have all been assigned to the volunteer staff at St Mungo's._

_Wow. This letter is getting long. Bet you didn't think I could write a letter this long, did you? We miss you lots. I miss you lots more than Harry, but you already know that, yeah? Write back soon, Hermione. We're dying for news._

_Yrs,_

_Ron_

_PS: We heard Malfoy was up there. Take a picture and ask if he remembers how I punched him in the face!_

Hermione folded the letter back along its creases and tucked it into the pages of the book she'd brought with her. Today Draco was assigned to rebuilding one of the crumbled walls. Already the rubble of the previous stonework had been cleared away and there was a brand new stack of bricks waiting to be put together. She watched him add more water to the mortar mix and give it another good stir. A old wizard bricklayer had spent the majority of the day before giving him instruction on the proper procedure. Hermione had taken notes in case Draco had questions afterward.

"Here," she said, holding out a box of chocolate frogs. "Would you like one?"

He turned and eyed the box suspiciously. "What for?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. He was always infuriatingly questioning or making biting remarks about everything she did. Either she wasn't watching him properly or she was standing over him like an angry teacher and he was not a naughty schoolboy. _Must you look like McGonagall every day? _he'd asked after she'd stood by those first few days, watching him clear out refuse and rubble, taking it to the designated area for garbage. Unable to decide what she could do to make things different, Hermione had offered to help carry some things. That had been met with just as much scorn, him firmly stating that he was fully capable of carrying out his sentence _without _her help.

"Oh just take one, Malfoy. It's just a chocolate frog. Ron and Harry sent them for my birthday and I don't think I can eat them all myself."

He snorted and set aside the stirring paddle, checking the mortar with his trowel and then began to slather it across a brick. "For people who tote themselves as your best friends, you'd think they'd send you something you'd enjoy more. Like a novel or another book of some sort."

Heat radiated from Hermione's burning cheeks. She absolutely did not want to admit that he was right. Her spirits had fallen slightly when she opened the gift only to find an average box of chocolate frogs. Frogs with cards that she would most likely send back to Ron because he still collected them. What she would have liked was the new experimental Charms theory book that H.Q. Barrington had just published the week before. It had been all over the literary section of the _Prophet_. Hermione had even sent the article to Ron to hint that it was something she was interested in.

"At least they remembered," she said sharply, tossing the box of frogs onto the ground. A few started to wriggle and croak in their wrappers. "How many of _your _friends remembered your birthday?"

It was below the belt. Everyone knew that the Malfoys along with every other Death Eater (or those aligned with them) had been in custody over the whole summer without the privilege of receiving post. As soon as she'd said it, though, Hermione felt terrible. She hated stooping to his level and dishing out snide comments, but he brought out the worst in her sometimes.

Stomping over to a bench, Hermione sat down with her arms crossed.

An hour passed; the only sound filling the space between them was the careful scrape of his trowel against the brick. Three times she opened her mouth to start a conversation, but chose to remain silent because a small voice kept reminding her that to spark conversation with Draco Malfoy would be like opening a can of worms. So all she could do was watch his hunched back and the way his shoulder blades moved under his shirt. His hands were filthy, black lines of grime under his fingernails and his shirt had a tear in the hem. There was a shameful sort of satisfaction that blossomed down inside her from seeing him in such a state of disrepair. She didn't like the feeling, but after years of insults it seemed to rear its ugly head.

"I know you're hard up Granger, what without having Weasel nearby to distract you and all, but must you ogle me?" Draco had turned slightly, smirking at her. "I'm finding it difficult to work under these conditions."

Hermione's face went an embarrassing shade of red and she averted her eyes. She hadn't been staring. At least not to the point where it would be considered ogling. Under extreme torture she might actually admit that he was fairly fit. He didn't have Ron's good-natured smile or bright eyes, but that wasn't to say that he was ugly. But she hadn't been staring. No. No, not like that.

"You're imagining things, Malfoy," she said with a glare. "I wouldn't ogle you if you were the last man on earth. In case you hadn't realised, I _have _a boyfriend and I'm most certainly not "hard up" so don't make assumptions about me."

"We all make assumptions. You make them about me. Why should I be exempt from this?"

"I do not!" Hermione protested without much weight behind it. God, she hated when he was right. Hated it. Hate. Hate. Hate. "Name one thing that anyone has assumed about you that hasn't proved remotely true. You're selfish. You can't stand that a _Mudblood _was better than you in class. You got out of this with little more than a slap on the wrist while the rest of us lost almost everything! People I loved died, Malfoy. They died. We had to bury Ron's brother. Remus. _Your _cousin, Tonks. We had to bury our friends!"

He threw down the trowel with such force that it broke, the blade skittering across the stone floor toward her feet. She'd not seen him this angry before. All the times he'd been cross with Harry, his face never showed such a blind, cold fury. Draco took a step toward her and Hermione took a step back. Somewhere she knew she'd crossed the line. But that was the thing with arguments, you try to say the most hurtful thing you can to come out on top. It's how it always went with Ron.

"When you can come back to me and tell me you saw one of your friends overcome by fire and burn to death, _then _we'll talk about loss. You had it easy."

"_Easy_?" she asked incredulously. "Tell me how being separated from my parents and spending a year trying to survive and being tortured by members of _your _family in your house is easy?!"

"You didn't have to live with it year round! Genuflecting to a dark lord that was clearly insane! Since then? I've lost all my friends. My family's lost almost everything. Our _home _has been practically razed to the ground! You don't know anything about what my life was like then and is like now, Granger. You just have all these preconceived notions that it must have been strawberries and champagne and fancy parties simply because I survived it all without much of a scratch." He paused, rubbing the middle of his chest. "Oh wait. Except I do have a scratch. A few of them, actually, no thanks to your Golden Boy, Potter."

That caused her mouth to close with an audible click of teeth against teeth.

He had a point.

***

_23 September, 1998_

_Hermione,_

_Your father and I won't pretend to know everything that you're talking about. Getting used to the idea that there is such a world with smoke and magic and mystical creatures a second time is proving to be a little harder than the first. Even the way this world sends its letters. Your father nearly had a heart attack when that bird arrived all feathers and squawking, landing in the middle of his eggs and not letting up until he'd given it some toast._

_It sounds as though this young man and yourself are at strong odds. I'm sorry and I wish that I could do something to make it easier for you, my dear._

_I do have a suggestion for you, love. Instead of focusing on your intertwined pasts, why don't you just leave that subject behind a closed door? Read aloud to him instead of bringing up other subjects. A good book is a healthy distraction. Always. You never know. This young man might appreciate it if you didn't prod him extensively in wounds that have not yet healed. You know as well as I do, that this sort of behaviour only breeds infection, whether it be physical or metaphorical. It seems you would both benefit from a cessation of sore subject matter._

_Pick a book, Hermione, and read aloud to him. One, it will help pass the long hours and, two, you have a pleasant reading voice. You get that from your father. He might enjoy the change._

_All my love,_

_Mum._

Glancing at the letter once more, Hermione set it down on her bed and looked over the books she'd spread out on the quilt. All of them classics. Nothing that he would have heard before. At least she didn't think that Draco Malfoy had an extensive background in eighteenth and nineteenth century Muggle fiction. Though she had been surprised before. Truthfully, Hermione didn't think that this suggestion of her mother's was going to work. She'd tried reading aloud to Harry and Ron once, but they'd mostly groaned and squirmed until she eventually gave up.

Finally Hermione selected her worn copy of _David Copperfield _and carried it out of the room with her.

The wall he was working on was slow going. Draco would work a line of bricks and then Hermione would have to check over the work and implement spells that she had on a list to infuse the bricks and joints with the right sort of magic. As far as she was concerned it would never be the same. She felt like a doctor trying to reconstruct a badly scarred person. Hogwarts was almost living and breathing, just like a person. Anything they did to it was... Not the same as the original construction.

"I've brought a book," she said and seated herself on the ground behind him.

Draco looked at her with raised eyebrows. A clump of mortar slid off his trowel and landed beside him with a plop. He stooped to scrape it off the ground, being careful not to get too much debris in the mixture. "In case you haven't noticed, Granger, I'm a little busy."

Hermione waved her hand dismissively and cracked open the book. "I know. I'm going to read it aloud. Just let me know when you're done a row and I'll do the spells."

"I hardly see the point of you reading--"

"Please, Draco," she said. "Just let me do this. It's a nice way to pass the time."

Had she been looking at him, Hermione would have seen the startled look on his face. She would have seen that startled look melt into an expression of utter confusion. He was well within his rights to be confused. She'd just said please to him. And called him by his first name. It was a pleasant request and not a demand. There wasn't anything behind it; Hermione merely wanted to get started on the book and not spend the next ten minutes arguing about it. So she asked nicely.

"Fine. But if this is some Muggle story, I reserve the right to interrupt you and ask questions about it without being ridiculed."

"I'm not going to ridicule you if you have questions."

A soft snort could be heard and she watched him for a long moment as he started his work again. Looking down at the pages, Hermione smiled. Reading Dickens, for her, was like coming home. Like wrapping herself in something that was ultimately the epitome of familiarity. If ever she started to feel like she wasn't exactly herself, all she had to do was curl up with a classic book and it was like rediscovering who she was all over again.

"That's the first time you've called me Draco," he said quietly and had she not been paying attention she wouldn't have heard it. But she did hear it. And she wasn't sure what to say in response.

So she started to read instead.

"_Chapter one. I am Born. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night_." Hermione shuffled back so she was leaning against something and bent her knees, resting the spine of the book where her legs touched together. "_It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously...._"

***

_3 October 1998_

"I'm just saying, Granger." Draco shrugged, a tiny smirk on his face. "It's not got anything to do with how you're reading it. I just don't like the choices you've made."

"How can you not like any of these?" Hermione snapped the third book shut. He'd stopped her and asked for a different book after the first few chapters of each. "They're excellent stories."

"They're dull as tombs," He lay a brick down and settled it into place before smoothing his finger along the mortar that had squeezed out. "And they're all the same."

An incredulous laugh came out of her mouth. "Oh they are not. You're being silly."

"David Copperfield is eventually without parents. Oliver Twist is an orphan. Now this Tom Jones fellow is a foundling?" He shook his head and dropped the trowel in the empty bucket, wiping his forehead with a rather soiled handkerchief. "No wonder you latched onto Potter so quickly. You've seriously got a complex about boys with no parental influence."

Hermione tossed the book aside and got to her feet, moving to check the work that he'd done before she pulled out her wand. Not once in her life had she considered the characters of her favourite books in such a way. They weren't like Harry. They weren't! Yet they were all in the same sort of boat. The lack of parents. It was a pattern. She didn't want to admit that aloud, but the pattern was there. Not that it ever factored into her choice to befriend Harry Potter. But to explain that to Draco Malfoy? He'd never believe her.

"Well what would you like me to read?" she asked finally as she wove spells into the brickwork. "There isn't much else left in my trunk, so you're running out of choices. I don't exactly have a library of fiction novels at my disposal."

"Something exciting. This Dickens fellow is depressing and the whole orphan thing is annoying."

Turning to face him, Hermione tilted her head. "I might have something. It's the last book I brought with me. If you don't like this one, you'll have to wait until my parents can send me something else. Which means we'll have to go back to either silence or I could just read passages from Advanced Charms." She fiddled with her wand; it still felt strange with his magic stored within its core. "You might like it. It's a classic Dumas. He was a French writer in the nineteenth century..."

Instead of answering her, he merely quirked his eyebrow. She wouldn't admit it to his face, but Hermione actually found the ability to ask a multitude of questions with a single movement, something Slytherins seemed to excel at, actually quite amazing. His raised eyebrow said many things. Oh? Go on. Do tell. Are you kidding me? I'm not amused by this. She decided that this time the raised eyebrow meant that he was curious. And she hoped that he would be. With a name like Malfoy, its French roots clearly visible, she hoped that a French writer would pique his interest.

"Let me get beyond the first few chapters of this last one before you make your decision. But you might enjoy the plot. There's revenge, intrigue, disguises, righteousness and betrayal by those you thought were friends. It's a good story."

"We'll have to see then," he said, leaning down to grab the bucket. He was going to need some more supplies before he started on the next row. "Anything's better than another orphan story."

"Just give me a chance." Hermione finished with the spells, half acknowledging the double meaning behind her statement. It had been a long time since first year when she was a eleven-almost-twelve little girl who just wanted to be given the same kind of opportunity that everyone else had been given. To show that she belonged in this world as much as anyone else. Incessantly trying to better herself so no one would think that they had made a mistake in inviting her to study at this school. All she'd wanted was a chance. That's all she ever asked of anyone.

And now she was asking it of him. There was this moment where the two of them looked at each other. She was waiting for a response. She wasn't sure what he was waiting for.

Then he took a breath and she almost, _almost_ saw a natural smile. But as quick as it was there, it was gone. Perhaps it hadn't been anything. Just her imagination.

Then he spoke. "I plan to."


End file.
